Toccata
by bj
Summary: You want more than anything, more than you want to touch him again, to say you're sorry. Matthew/Ephram, sequel to "Six Partitas."


it's: toccata  
by: bj  
in sum: you want more than anything, more than you want to touch him again, to say you're sorry.  
label: matthew. matthew/ephram.  
rating: pg13. language.  
sissies: "the unveiling."  
legalities: don't own, don't sue.  
i say: sequel to "six partitas." second person pov. final in this version of matthew and ephram. the trilogy is called "three-part invention."  
muse: "the ultimate glenn gould collection," j.s. bach, a.w. bach, "toccata" by dizzy gillespie.  
you say: all comments appreciated, answered, and archived. allcanadiangirl@lycos.com.

  
**toccata**

You sit on the couch with him and talk about jazz. He's wearing a t-shirt, and you can see a fading bruise crawling beneath the sleeve. You drop your eyes, you remember the loose lightness of his hair between your fingers.

Listening intently for Dr. Brown to return, you miss Ephram's comment on Dizzy Gillespie's classical interpretations. When you look at him blankly his face turns pale, turns to stone.

You remember pushing him away violently, watching him slide from the bench. His swift inhalation when his left shoulder met the floor. The way he paused, looking up at you, and then let his head hit the hardwood. His face drawn in resignation.

He covers his eyes with his left hand. "I'm going to call my dad."

You don't know what to say. You would get up and leave, like you did last week, but you need to pick up two cheques now. There are things like car payments and the fact that his mouth tasted like cola and Sweet Tarts. You tense your body, as if you can freeze the memory.

"Please," you say. He gets up and leaves the living room, though you can see a phone beside the fireplace. You don't watch. He glances at you as he turns the corner.

You want to know what he told his father, his sister, his friends about the bruise. You want to know if it hurt very much, if it pained him on the flight to New York, if he felt it like a badge of grief throughout the weekend. You want to ask him why he thinks you pushed him away. You want to say you're sorry.

You want more than anything, more than you want to touch him again, to say you're sorry.

You stand, you don't look at the place where he fell. You run your fingers-his fingers curling into the collar of your shirt-over the books piled on top of the piano. Surprised, you pull a chops book from the mess. You thumb through it, noting the passages he has noted.

You hear his raised voice coming from the back of the house. You're not sure what he's saying. He stops abruptly, and a moment later is standing in the foyer. "He's going to be awhile," he says. "Delia wanted to go up to the nature preserve." He's looking out the window, not at you. "Even if they left right now, it'd be an hour before they got back."

"What did you tell him?"

His gaze snaps to you and then away. "Not to hurry. That you could pick it up on Saturday."

You suppose you can put the payment on your credit card. "That's fine. Thank you for calling."

He nods sullenly.

You start to put the book back, then look at him, holding it up. "Good choice."

He stares at you. "What?"

"It's good technique. And jazz is a fun way to learn theory."

"Fun?" he says. Like he's never had it and isn't sure he'd like it if he did.

This isn't working. You shove the book back into the pile. You pick up your briefcase and coat. You pull your keys from your pocket.

He steps back when you pass him, even though there are several feet between you. You can't look at him, drawn up like a reed, arms folded. His cool smooth skin, the hitch of his breath against your mouth.

You have the door open before you turn sharply, about to tell him he was great today. He was withdrawn, he was isolated and the music sounded like it was coming from a mile away. You're going to tell him anyway because you've lost all objectivity.

His eyes are locked on you, you see all of it in his face. You're the adult here. This is your responsibility.

You sigh. "I'm sorry," you say, sounding maybe a little more dutiful than you'd intended.

He smiles that half-smile you love and hate. His eyes are dark, he's not breaking. "You're sorry? You think this is about you?"

It isn't. You're suddenly stranded in a minefield. You don't know where to step. "This isn't about me."

"No," he says on a laugh.

He walks away, he walks into the living room. You turn to see what he's doing. He has all the books from the top of the piano in his arms, he comes back into the foyer.

"You can leave now," he says. "Have a nice drive."

He starts up the stairs. The gears in your world have stopped working, but the door handle turns smoothly. The latch clicks softly. You have no sensation of moving, but you are standing beside your car, keys in hand. The afternoon is chilly and sharp around you, it cuts into your chest and your face as you lean on your car, scratching the door to hell with the key, trying to get it in.

And you're not trying to get it in at all, you're just pissed at the door and the key and yourself. You key a long streak down to the rear fender, then back to the hood, you swing your arm with a flourish. "Son of a bitch," you say.

You kick the tire three times, once for the door, once for the key, once for yourself. "God. Damn. It," you say.

"Matt?"

Ephram is standing on the sidewalk, smirking at you. You are a fool.

"Yes?" you say in the coolest voice you can manage, which isn't very.

The smirk is gone. He comes up to your car and puts a book on the roof. He pushes it across. "You can have this," he says.

It is the chops book. You coil your fingers around your keys and squeeze until it hurts. "No thanks," you say. You push the book back with your other hand. "I don't need it."

He blinks and doesn't take the book. "I didn't mean that," he says. "What I said. Not the way it sounded, anyway."

"Whatever," you say, and part of you sings a major scale because he didn't mean it and you're acting like you don't care.

He crosses his arms, he puts his fingers up the sleeve that hides the bruise. He nods sharply. "Okay, then."

Your insides are a crashing chorus of praise, because he's buying it. He thinks you don't care.

"Great," you say. "I'll see you on Saturday. Have a good break."

His arm snaps out and grabs the book. "Yeah. Bye." He shakes his head and turns around, he goes back up the walk and up the stairs. You can't help watching.

"Don't forget to practise," you call. Make it last a little longer.

He turns again, walking backwards. "You too."

You smile, he smiles a little bit. He walks up the stairs sideways, he waves the book in goodbye as he goes inside. His door shuts.

You pull on the handle and whisper, "Fuck," when the door opens.

  
End.

  



End file.
